Letters
by reine Seele
Summary: AltMal Fluff Piece. Altair never writes, but he's always there when Malik needs him the most...even when he doesn't want to admit it.


**My first AC fic! I guess timeline-wise, this would take place a year or so after the end of the first game. Just a bit of AltMal fluff, to offset all the angst I've been reading. Hope it's nice!**

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Not that Malik was counting, but Altaïr had been gone for almost three weeks, four days, and several hours. Not that he was keeping track. And not that he really _cared_, but Altaïr's mission, his assassination target was a force to be reckoned with. Several attempts on his life had already been made in the years before, and every assassin sent after him returned to Masyaf in pieces or not at all. Not that it _bothered _him, but Malik hadn't heard anything from Altaïr in the past few days. Not even so much as a pigeon.

Malik grumbled about the lack of messenger fowl as he poured over a scroll he had made notes on the day before. A novice bounced before him, all bright eyed eagerness and ambition. First assignment jitters. Malik wanted to smack the boy aside the head and lecture him about the dangers of Jerusalem and the virtues of taking one's _time _to prepare for an assassination. The boy was young though, and didn't appear to be wholly concerned with the particulars of his profession. Malik figured he would learn the hard way and come crawling back to the bureau where he would then be a little more receptive to criticism.

"Go to the market west of the Great Temple," Malik said, reading over his notes. "There is a man there by the name of Bashura; he will have information for you."

The novice grinned, delighted, and made to leave. Malik halted him with a hearty _ahem_. The novice huffed impatiently and waited, thrumming with pent-up energy.

"Be vigilant," Malik warned. "It won't be as easy as tracking Bashura down and asking him to tell you what he knows. He will want something from you. Be prepared to kill."

The novice had the decency to humbly inspect his feet, and then made to leave again. Malik stopped him once more.

"Safety and Peace, little brother," he said, his tone clearly implying that he did not tolerate rudeness. The novice flushed and executed a quick, respectful bow.

"And to you the same," he responded quietly, before disappearing through the door way. Malik listened until the sound of boots scuffing against the wall and half-suppressed grunts disappeared before breathing a sigh of relief and rolling up his scroll. Hopefully the novice would heed at least _some _of his warnings. Hopefully, the novice wouldn't die.

Not an hour and a half later, Malik heard the angry shouts of guards from the streets, delighted screams of children, and horrified cries of women as calls for "Assassin! Murderer!" arose. Malik hurried around the counter as quickly as possible to close the Bureau entrance. He grabbed the pole to reach the sliding plank, and barely two seconds later the novice fell through the roof, heaving and gasping, clutching his bloodied side and cursing rapidly. Malik slid the plank into place and then kneeled by the novice, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Silence!" Malik hissed, holding his own breath as he listened for their enemies. Footsteps above and heavy curses alerted him to the presence of Templars on the roof, and he pressed the novice into the pillows, forcing him to be still and remain quiet. The novice let out a low moan of pain beneath his palm, but remained immobile. The guards searched the rooftops for several minutes, cursing each other for losing their target. When the last of the Templars climbed back down to street level, Malik let go of the boy's mouth and grabbed hold of his arm.

"Get up," he urged, pulling the novice's arm around his neck. The boy groaned, but slowly stumbled to his feet as Malik stood up. He gripped the front of the Dai's robes to keep himself upright, and Malik could see the boy was in considerable pain.

"You foolish child," he snapped as he half carried the boy into his own small quarters behind the counter of the Bureau. Not for the first time, as Malik lowered the boy onto the bed and started to strip him of his weapons and sash, he wished he had the use of two healthy arms instead of one. He wished this more fervently as the extent of the boy's wounds became known to him.

"Great Allah," Malik breathed as he inspected the long gash on the novice's side, "did you purposely set yourself in the path of your enemy's sword?"

The novice whimpered as Malik prodded the area around the wound, but said nothing. His youthful face was red and scrunched up in pain, and his black hair was damp with sweat and blood. He looked so young, and Malik felt a twinge of pain as he recalled his brother's face after their first mission, how terrified he had been, yet elated with the thrill of victory. This young man had a brother somewhere, perhaps.

Malik left the bedside and retrieved a roll of fresh linen bandages and healing salve to cleanse the wound. Setting those at the foot of the bed he also found a basin and filled it with fresh, cold water from the fountain outside, and found a fairly clean rag to dab the boy's wounds with. He had no needle or thread and even if he did, closing the wound on his own would have been impossible. He'd need a physician. Malik couldn't leave the boy, though, not now. He would go as soon as he had bandaged the wound.

"This will hurt," he murmured as he dipped the cloth into the cool water and began to wash away the blood. The boy arched his back in pain and gave a low cry. His eyes were closed and he grit his teeth against the pain, looking, for one moment, so dismally young and fragile that Malik wondered how he would ever survive the Trials. The illusion was gone in the next second as the boy opened his eyes, which were black with a mixture of hatred and pain, and he looked older than his years.

Malik glanced at his face and pressed the compress against his wound again, turning back to the bowl to squeeze the bloody water out. The boy was young and strong. If infection didn't set in, he would survive. Malik had no doubt of this, and comforted the boy as best he could. When encouragement lost its appeal, he decided to distract the novice with conversation.

"What is your name?" Malik asked, after a particularly loud groan made him fear of their being discovered. The boy flinched away from the wet rag, and answered softly.

"A-Anwar of Syria," he said, hissing as Malik mopped up the blood which had dripped down his side. "It means—unh—'light'," he added, as an afterthought.

"A good name," Malik replied, nodding. "And how old are you, Anwar of Syria?"

"Sixteen…"

"You're finished with your first Trial?"

"Uh-huh."

"And how goes this one?"

Anwar glared at Malik, as if to ask, "How does it _look _like it went?" but said, in a tone most respectful, "I failed to assist Bashura—I assassinated the wrong target, and was discovered."

Malik shook his head slowly, aware of how devastating the consequences of such a mistake could be, especially for a novice. Anwar was lucky to have survived. He was even luckier to have made it back to the Bureau in one piece.

"You remind me very much of Master Altaïr," Malik soothed, helping Anwar to sit up. The action pained the boy greatly, and he could hardly hold himself upright without crying out. Malik cursed beneath his breath and supported Anwar from behind while reaching for the roll of bandages. It was so much harder than he remembered, such a simple thing as bandaging one's wounds. And he feared he was not able to be as gentle as he might have, with two arms.

"H-how am I like—ah—Master Altaïr?" Anwar asked, surprising Malik. He hadn't thought the boy had heard him.

"Headstrong," he replied slowly, still maintaining a respectful tone. He managed to tie the bandage around Anwar's waist and began to wrap his side. Anwar took the end of the roll when it was passed to him, and passed it back to Malik.

"He never did listen to me," Malik continued, speaking quietly. "He still doesn't. Always insists on doing things _his _way. He learns from his mistakes, though. I trust you will do the same."

Anwwar nodded heartily as his brow knitted together. He bit his lip and faltered in passing the roll back to Malik; the pain was becoming stronger, perhaps.

"Relax, little brother," Malik said, biting off the end of the bandage and tucking it into the wrappings. Setting his arm at Anwar's back, Malik helped the young man lay back down, careful not to touch his wound. Anwar seemed to hold his breath until the last moment, and let out a sigh when his back touched the soft pillow Malik stuffed behind him.

"How else?" Anwar asked, his eyes half-lidded and dull from the pain. Malik tilted his head to the side, in deep thought before answering.

"He is very confident," he decided to say, "and he believes himself able to do anything. Even fly, like the eagle."

"Is that why he is called the Eagle of Masyaf?" Anwar asked.

"Perhaps," Malik said mysteriously. "Perhaps it is. But then, he may also be called the Fool of the Creed. He is more foolish than wise sometimes."

Anwar looked scandalized for a moment, as if they were speaking about some taboo subject, or if Altaïr himself would that moment drop from the ceiling like a lizard and demand they both renounce the Creed and never return to Masyaf, ever. But Altaïr did not drop from the ceiling, and Malik merely smiled at the boy's shock.

"Altaïr is a very difficult man to decipher," Malik said, patting Anwar on the shoulder, "but at the end of the day, my opinion of him remains the same: he is a strong and capable leader, and a loyal friend. I would rather have him by my side in a fight rather than ten of our most promising assassins. You would do well enough to emulate him."

"Thank you," Anwar said tiredly, inclining his head and putting his hands together in the customary greeting. Malik gave him a small smile and nodded in return. The boy would survive, he was sure of it. He would bring a physician in as soon as he was confident Anwar was asleep and would worry about the novice no more. Or at least, that's what _would _have happened if Malik hadn't accidentally jarred the boy in his wounded side with his knee as he made to get up.

Anwar _howled _in pain, loud enough to wake the dead. Or worse, alert the guards. Malik covered Anwar's mouth quickly and hushed him, his heart pounding with fear of being discovered. He heard muffled noises from outside, drifting through the openings in the roof where the vines grew over the lattice. Malik held his breath as he listened for the telltale sound of footsteps on the roof. Anwar struggled beneath him, clutching at his hand and squirming.

"Quiet!" Malik whispered, shooting the boy a glance and praying to Allah that the entrance to the Bureau would not be discovered. Anwar nodded desperately and Malik released his hold on the boy's mouth, allowing him to breath. A sword stood close by the bed, and Malik unsheathed it with a metallic hiss. Balancing it against his shoulder, he listened. Anwar glanced at the sword, his expression worried. Clearly he did not believe the Dai of Jerusalem capable of fending off the guards of the city. Not with only one arm.

Malik quietly moved toward the main room of the Bureau, skirting around the counter and peering into the adjoining room.

_Damn_, he thought to himself. A guard had found the entrance and somehow scaled down the wall. He was looking about suspiciously, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Malik clutched the hilt of his own and slowly stepped into sight, making sure the guard saw him. Now that the man had discovered the entrance to the Bureau, he could not be permitted to live. Malik would end his life quickly and silently. He was still an assassin, at heart.

The guard, who had drawn his own sword the moment Malik made his presence known, laughed heartily. He saw his opponent as nothing more than a useless invalid, holding a sword like a toy, completely unable to use it properly. The very fact that the man had drawn a sword against him meant a death wish. The guard kept chuckling and swung his sword in a large arc, showing off.

"Prepared to die today?" he asked, the mirth clear in his voice. Malik sneered and said nothing, just held his sword at an angle across his chest, prepared to defend. The guard didn't notice, and began to taunt him.

"Perhaps I should remove your other arm," he called out, "and then you would be even on both sides! Or better yet, I could cut off your legs as well, and then you would _completely_ useless! How does that sound?"

Malik refused to let the jeers of the guard force his hand. He would not allow his blade to be guided by his emotions. He would not allow himself to lose his mind over the meaningless goading of a lowly guard. He was _better _than that. Steeling himself, Malik prepared to thrust toward the guard, hoping to catch him by surprise. He wouldn't suspect the "invalid" of attacking first.

Malik never got the chance.

A flutter of white, like bird's wings, and a robed figure dropped through the gap in the roof and fell upon the guard. Malik watch as Altaïr dug his hidden blade into the back of the man's neck, dropping him quickly and silently, efficient as ever. As the guard lay on the floor, twitching, dying, Altaïr looked down at him and said, with a sneer, "Show some respect, you sniveling coward. You speak to the King of Swords. He could have defeated you with one hand tied behind his back, and as he lacks an arm, you were already at the disadvantage."

The man looked toward the roof with glassy eyes and gurgled, blood spurting out of the hole in his throat. A moment later, and he died with little more than choked moan. Altaïr kicked his body and stepped over it, commenting about the state of the carpet. Malik glared and turned away, furious that his kill had been taken from him.

"Come now," Altaïr chuckled, seeing the defiant set of Malik's shoulders and instantly gleaming his friend's thoughts, "I am not allowed to save the man I love from certain death?"

"I would have killed him," Malik grumbled, looking at the keen edge of his blade as if he wished it had been bathed in blood.

"I know," Altaïr laughed, "but I couldn't deny myself the satisfaction of the look on your face. It was very gratifying, I assure you."

Malik rolled his eyes and strode away, to assure Anwar that there was no danger, that everything had been taken care of. Altaïr followed, still chuckling to himself. Malik felt hands on his waist and quickened pace, slipping through the door to his room where Anwar sat with wide, frightened eyes. The moment Malik came into view, and followed so closely by a grinning Altaïr, the boy relaxed and ventured a small smile.

"Safety and peace, little brother!" Altaïr exclaimed jovially, ignoring Malik's intensely reproachful look. "So, _you're_ the one I have to thank for all the trouble you've caused here!"

"T-trouble, Master?" Anwar gulped, looking quickly at Malik, who only sighed and sheathed his sword.

"Of course! I was barely able to enter the city without being searched from head to toe! Some word about a foolish young assassin killing the _wrong _target or something."

Anwar paled considerably, probably expecting a fierce scolding. Altaïr certainly looked fierce, with his golden eyes bright with excitement and his mouth set in a thin line. Malik shook his head at Anwar and nudged Altaïr lightly.

"Our new Master jests too much," he said. "Perhaps he could make himself a little more useful and fetch the physician. I am sure Anwar here would not appreciate our hospitality so much if he caught infection in his wound and died."

"Pah!" Altaïr said with a wave of his hand. "I know when I am unwanted. Fine, I shall find the physician and bring him here. Fear not, Anwar, I shall not let you languish in _this _one's presence—" Here he jerked his head at Malik, who smirked only a little bit "—any longer."

He led the way out of the room and Malik shut the door behind them before cuffing Altaïr on the back of his head. The younger man laughed and lowered his white hood, smiling at Malik as if the entire incident had been nothing more than a game.

"I suppose you will want me to dispose of the body as well," he said.

"Yes, you shall," Malik countered. "_You _killed him, therefore the body is _your _responsibility. I expect it to be gone by the time I bring the physician back. That means bloodstains as well."

Altaïr scrunched up his nose but didn't argue further. Instead, he set a heavy hand on Malik's shoulder and squeezed.

"I have missed you," he said, his tone warm and sincere. Malik shrugged his hand off and slid behind the counter, putting it between himself and Altaïr. As if it would do him good.

"You never sent word," Malik stated, bringing out the large, mostly blank volume he used to catalogue the day's events. "I thought you were dead or dying in a ditch on the side of the road."

"Liar," Altaïr said, "you know full well I would never deprive you the pleasure of rubbing salt in my wounds. I would have dragged myself back to Jerusalem if only to die in your Bureau."

"And to leak blood all over the floor," Malik agreed, bringing out an inkwell and quill as well. He dipped the tip of the quill in the black ink and began to write in a neat, but tiny script, while the events of the day were fresh in his memory. He would add more later, after the physician had left and all the lamps were burning on the midnight oil.

"Of course," Altaïr smiled, "and I shall never change."

"One can only hope," Malik said, his tone indifferent. He felt Altaïr's hand on his shoulder again, squeezing insistently, and he looked up to send the man off. He was stopped when a pair of warm, dry lips covered his own, effectively trapping any words upon the tip of his tongue in his mouth. Malik tried to push Altaïr off, but could not just drop his ink-covered quill to do so. So he gave up and leaned into the kiss, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side. He felt Altaïr's tongue against his lips, begging for entrance and he quickly conceded, opening his mouth slightly. Altaïr wasted no time in drinking deeply from his lover, slanting his mouth and sucking greedily of his bottom lip.

"Ah," Malik grumbled, "Altaïr, no—"

Altaïr broke the kiss, and he did so with a proud smirk.

"I'm going to take care of that stinking corpse," he announced, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, to the room where the dead guard lie. "And when I come back, the physician better be gone, for I wish to spend my time with you before I must return to Masyaf."

Malik frowned at Altaïr's mention of leaving. He had only just arrived…

Altaïr saw his lover's look and slapped a hand against Malik's whiskered cheek.

"Fear not," he said, "I shall remain for a few days yet. Go and fetch the physician, while I take care of our unwanted guest. I'll be waiting for you."

Altaïr turned to leave, but Malik stopped him.

"Altaïr," he snapped, and the younger man turned to look at him with a curious look.

"Yes?"

"Did you complete your mission?"

Altaïr smiled and dug into his belt, pulling out a bloody feather. He handed it to Malik, who accepted it without so much a glance.

"As Allah wills it," Malik said, and turned back to his books.

* * *

Later that evening, as the two lovers relaxed amongst the pillows in the main room of the Bureau, naked except for Malik's black Dai cloak covering the both of them, Malik voiced his concerns again.

"I worry about you," he admitted freely, touching the nub of Altaïr's missing finger. Altaïr had draped his arm over the other's shoulders, and watched Malik play with his hand, the way he always did when he wanted to talk but did not want to sound as if he was nagging. "I wish you would take the time to send word every now and then."

"Could have sworn I sent a messenger pigeon," Altaïr said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"If you did, it died on the way here," Malik commented glibly, not at all convinced that Altaïr had actually done such a thing.

"Ah," Altaïr said, "that would explain why you did not get my note, then. A pity."

"Why? Don't tell me you wrote more than three lines this time."

"More than seven, I think."

Joking. Teasing. Altaïr enjoyed it. Malik tolerated. He rolled his eyes and leaned back against Altaïr's side, resting his hand on the other's thigh, comforting himself with the presence of his lover.

"And what did this exceptionally lengthy message say?" Malik asked, feigning interest to hide the fact that he really was interested in what Altaïr _may have_ written. Altaïr hummed for a moment, pretending to recall imaginary words he had never scratched onto paper.

"Let's see," he mused, "I believe I mentioned how beautiful the Jordan was this time of year…"

Malik snorted in disbelief.

"I made a line or two about how ridiculously pretty the girls were…"

A jab to the stomach this time, and Altaïr almost winced.

"And then I assured you that I was not about to stray, and I already accepted your apology for believing that I did."

"Oh really," Malik replied, raising an eyebrow as his lover nipped his ear.

"Yes, of course. How could I not forgive _you_?"

"What else did the message say?"

"That I missed you more than words could describe, and that to try to explain my heart would mean more than seven _hundred _words on seven hundred sheaves of paper."

Malik turned and caught Altaïr's lips in a kiss, raising his hand to cup the other's stubbled cheek. He felt Altaïr's tongue at the corner of his mouth, again, and smiled.

"I would have welcomed such an abundance of words, if it meant knowing that you were alive and well."

"And so I am," Altaïr murmured, touching his forehead to Malik's.

Malik closed his eyes and sighed. Stupid, foolish, arrogant Altaïr, he said to himself, the words more affectionate in his head than they would have been on his tongue.

"Just promise me you'll send word every now and then," Malik whispered. "Or else I might go on believing you dead."

"Can't have that," Altaïr agreed.

"Then we have an understanding?"

"Only if you don't expect more than a few lines."

Malik kissed Altaïr and informed him that no, a few lines would suffice. The next moment, they were too engrossed to form coherent speech, let alone writing.


End file.
